


Drifting Satellite

by the_throwaway_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Astrology, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexual Remus Lupin, Comfort/Angst, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Escapism, Horny Teenagers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV First Person, POV Remus Lupin, Present Tense, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Teen Romance, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, lycanthropy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-05-04 03:07:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14583612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_throwaway_account/pseuds/the_throwaway_account
Summary: How does Remus cope with his condition in an AU in which he has an absent mother, distant father, and no true friends?'The Room of Requirement gives me a dark place to regain control.'





	1. Logic

_My body’s not belonged to me since I was four years old, so I may as well share it, now that I’m of age._

This is the summary of my logic, always winding restless in my mind. Hyper-aware of myself and my physical urges, I think all my choices through. I give in only because I allow myself the right. The things I do are deliberate; they have to be.

I’ve analyzed my motives carefully. I was nearly a Ravenclaw, after all, like my father. Merlin, if that unassuming man knew what I did... Well, it’s hard to imagine what he’d do— what new level of shame would darken his eyes.

This thought does not frighten me. On a basic level I have become immune to shame. It’s a necessary adaptation when your own blood looks at you with fear distorting their love, pity and guilt clouding the tenuous joy at pointless successes like top marks in school. We both know these small victories are fleeting. I will never be able to hold down a job of any decent caliber. I will live hand to mouth. I will struggle.

I smile wryly to myself as I dry off after a bath in the prefect’s wash room, imagining my father’s shock, his anger. I decide it’d be a welcome change to the bland man’s calm facade. I pause and take a moment to marvel at a fresh scar across my ribs. My right hand traces the mark, and then my left hand wraps around my right wrist— left rough, discolored, and skeletal as the wolf’s earliest and most favorite chew toy. It’s the only part of my body I’m not comfortable with.

I pull on the tight, black partial sleeve I use to cover the offending appendage and glance in the mirror again. Muscle is more visible now, even in calm movements. I am getting stronger, and so is the wolf. The beast has somehow become more creative as well, or perhaps just angrier. How the skin between my shoulder blades was torn open two weeks and two days prior, I can’t be sure. There must have been some gruesome acrobatics involved.

As I pull on my shirt, I wonder how young I will die. The irony is not lost on me that the older I get, the lower my estimation becomes. My brow furrows slightly in thought. I’d wager about 36 years now, 38 tops. As a sixth year, I’ve nearly reached middle age.

I’m not blind to the fact that I’ve romanticized my sickness— the tortured soul only meant for this earth for a season, the literal lone wolf. It’s an odd defense mechanism, imbuing poetry into my disease. I knew at a fragile age that loneliness would always haunt me. Before I even got the chance to fancy someone, I learned no one could ever truly know me. It fucks with your expectations about attachment- skews your perspective. I have a secret I’ll take to my grave, my only companion. It makes me special, and I’ve grown accustomed to my fate.

Feeling so distant, so emotionally bankrupt, I decided some time ago that I might as well counter balance the mental barricade with loose lips and eager hips.

The Room of Requirement gives me a dark place to regain control.

 

* * *

Sometimes when a boy is inside of me, I wonder what it’d be like to wake up next to someone else’s warmth, share a sleepy smile.

Sometimes when I’m inside a boy, I think, how would it be to know a full name, a favorite color, a birthday?

When I’m inside a girl I sometimes want to say I love her, and I have to bite my lip to stop myself. I wouldn’t mean it, of course. I’m just curious how the words would feel in my mouth, how out of place. They may as well be another language.

I’m glad my scars frighten people. I tell them I was attacked by a dog when I was very small, and if someone’s bold enough or cares enough to ask, I say the fresher marks are because I cut myself for fun. When I’m in a certain mood, or near a certain moon, I ask if they want to try. No one has said yes.

I give myself a final once-over, arranging my long, wavy hair to shadow the multiple marks on my neck, the scar from the monster that made me, and various smaller bruises and bites. I think it may have been the lie about cutting myself that first compelled my more vigorous partners to scratch, bite, and hit me. Or maybe I just exude an air of unimportance.

Whatever the initial reason, I didn’t stop them. Indeed, it wasn’t long before I started begging for it, sometimes demanding it. My body’s not my own, anyway. Honestly, it's quite refreshing for a little harm to come from an outside source, so I let them take their anger out on me.

 

* * *

Then there’s a boy in the restricted section of the library.

The mere fact that he is at ease among the secluded stacks tells me a lot. He’s clearly been given permission to be here. Which means the professors, and Dumbledore himself, trust him. Therefore, it stands to reason that he doesn’t get into much trouble, which either means he’s good, or good at not getting caught.

He is also focused on his education more than most, as intensive extra credit assignments are the primary stipulation to being allowed to delve into these shelves.

I only glimpse him in my peripheral vision, but find myself pulled toward him by some unnamed vibration. He seems to possess a restrained, dark energy- something like a coiled snake. When a single row of tomes separates us, I see his green and silver tie gleam in the torchlight and cannot help a small smile at my earlier idea about him. Against my will, I find myself immediately more interested in him, maybe even attracted— if not for any other reason than I’ve had so few of Slytherin's kin in my bed. The vast majority are much too proud to turn to a Gryffindor for any sort of companionship, let alone intimate pleasure. The rarity of it gives the illusion that it’s special— some sort of challenge, or trophy.

I mentally shake myself, deeply annoyed by my unfounded curiosity. I feel a sudden urgency to put as much space between us as possible, and make a swift, silent exit.


	2. Parallel

I am not one who naturally rises with the sun, so I only see that particular snake a couple times during the first two months of school. He seems to occupy the library whenever nightmares wake me and I escape the suffocating air of my assigned dorm at an uncommonly early hour.

Halloween falls on a Sunday, and on the night of the feast I eat hurriedly and venture afterwards into the library proper. Almost suspiciously soon after my arrival, the Slytherin sits at my table, across from me, but one space over.

“It seems you’ve escaped the garish festivities as well,” he says.

“Seems so,” I reply, not looking up from my sketchbook.

His scent, heavy with potion ingredients, interferes with my scent-reading of him. I wonder if this is despite of, or because of the waxing moon.

After only about twenty minutes of shared silence, he closes his book and crosses his arms.

“I know who you are, and what you do,” he says. I find no judgement in his words, but somehow this does not surprise me.

“Word gets around, as do I,” I say simply.

I take the time to deepen the shading around my thestral’s eye before closing my book to look at the Slytherin openly for the first time.

I'm reminded first of a vampire— narrow shoulders and pale skin, ebony locks falling to his chin. His posture is slouching yet defensive. He seems to look down on me while even just sitting I have some visible height on him.

Secondly, I wonder how his skin feels.

Thirdly, I decide I'd like him to bite me, to feed.

“You’re interesting,” the snake says, in an eerie echo of my own thoughts.

I can’t clearly read his tone, or even his face, and I have trouble deciding in that moment if this is more intriguing, or annoying. Despite his mouth smirking at me with soft-looking lips, the look in his black beetle eyes is closed off, calculating. It’s a familiar gaze acting as a mirror and a magnet.

“Does that mean you’re interested?” I return, voice cool.

There’s a pause in which I guess his answer and slowly cross my arms. In perfect reversal, the Slytherin unwraps his own from against his body.

“No,” he says, looking down and tugging at his too-short robe sleeves. “But you should know I see you, and my name is Severus Snape.”

He stands up, retrieves his book, and exits quickly. I sense tension at his departure. I feel some satisfaction that, for whatever reason, I seem to have caused this Snape person to retreat in much the same manner as I had weeks prior.

That night as I lie in bed, and also in quiet, distracted moments for days after, I find the same thought repeating in my mind:

He sees me. He _sees_ me. _What does that mean?_

* * *

 

On Saturday, November 20 I feel almost normal, as the moon is new. I can take a proper deep breath for the first time in weeks. The chain of an anchor has finally rusted away, leaving me lighter. As welcome as this feeling is, I can't help but mourn its brevity. Certainly if the lunar calendar operated in some capacity to steal this respite from me, my mind would have unhinged ages ago.

I enter the library and set up to study. About an hour into my work, I get up to retrieve a book from the restricted section. I return to my table, where books are stacked, a ball point pen lies adjacent to a quill, and a spiral notebook keeps parchment from rolling up on itself.

I notice immediately that the book I had open is closed, a bit of paper acting as a bookmark. It’s a page of college-ruled notebook paper, cut in half. I see a brief message in small handwriting.

 _I’m interested.  
_ _-SS_

The words vanish a moment after I read them. After a brief pause I pick up my pen and write: _Room of Requirement- half an hour after dinner._ The words fade just as soon as they’re written.

* * *

 

He's right on time, and we kiss without preamble. We do not kiss gently, but in a tense, almost angry manner. Close proximity, of course, amplifies the smell of potion fumes. It exudes from his robes and from his hair. I think of small dead animals, bleeding flowers. The scent makes him taste like medicine, but that doesn’t stop me from enjoying it.

By mid-December our meetings become regular. They actually occur more often than with any other exploits, and this makes me uneasy at first, but then I chalk it up to equal parts boredom and coincidence.

The calendar bleeds into January, and I am grateful for having the weekend to recuperate from the moon that so cruelly conquered me on Thursday, the sixth.

On our first meeting of the year of our lord 1977, the Slytherin’s appearance strikes me anew. He wears simple, new robes. The sleeves are not as exaggerated as older styles, they are the proper length, and the fresh black color seems to devour the light. As he moves to put down his bag and sit on the plush sofa, my eyes linger, appreciating how the fit hugs his slight frame.

“New robes, for my birthday,” he says, and I respond reflexively.

“When was it,” I say, inwardly cringing at my traitorous curiosity.

“Yesterday, the ninth.”

A wheel of dates and signs shifts inside my head.

“A Capricorn… symbol of the stubborn goat,” I say, sidling up to the couch. I smile as Snape’s brow furrows in annoyance as I take a seat beside him.

“Suits you well, from what I see- ambitious, regimented, unemotional.”

He silences me with a kiss, less bruising than the usual.

“You think you know me,” he says lowly, more serious than I’d prefer.

As much as Snape's face likes to remain stony, his tone of voice reminds me yet again how much emotion comes through in his speech.

“I know you well enough to fuck,” I say to negate the out-of-place solemnity.

A pause lingers, but not for long.

“You don’t actually believe that rubbish,” he says. His mouth sucks my bottom lip; his hand runs slowly up and down my thigh, venturing higher with each movement.

It surprises me that he doesn’t put me down. I handed that one to him, really. _And what do you need to know to fuck someone, that they have a pulse? Pretty low bar, wouldn’t you say?_

“Of course it’s not true, but it’s still interesting.” I reply with a shrug.

Snape does not reply. His hand finally reaches my erection, and as he rubs, an unspoken agreement passes between our eyes. As we begin undressing, my movements become brisk while the snake moves slowly and carefully. Wordlessly, I push him down against the couch and take him.


	3. Ruling Body

Not long after climax, after getting cleaned up, Snape disentangles himself and puts his pants back on. I have an inkling he's not quite comfortable with his body, or perhaps with me. I could hardly blame him if that's the case. Comfort is not the goal, anyway.

I wordlessly Accio my underwear and put them on, but nothing else, before lounging back on the couch. The Snake moves to sit on the end seat, nudging my feet so that I bend my knees, allowing him room.

I tug idly on the tight black sleeve still adorning my mangled wrist. The silence is not awkward, but not overly amiable.

"What's your symbol, then," the Slytherin says, and at first I don't realize he's talking about the zodiac. I figure it out quickly though, and afterwards perform the rare misstep of hesitating with my answer. I wonder if I should lie, and I'm not sure why I don't.

"The fish," I say.

Snape looks about to laugh and I feel compelled to explain, which in and of itself is out of character.

"There's two, actually, tied together, but swimming in opposing directions."

The Snake sobers a bit, and something almost predatory sparks behind his eyes. He shifts his position, coaxing my legs off the couch. I halfway sit up and shift the angle of my body to relieve the uncomfortable twist this creates. He leans slowly over me, pushing my sweaty hair away from my face.

"That certainly sounds… complicated." His voice stretches between syllables like a cat, slow and sinewy, and I'm forced to admit to myself, not for the first time, that this boy's voice is like warm silk on skin.

"You've no idea," I smile.

"Oh, I think I do," he murmurs, and in that moment a chill runs through my blood. What reason could he have to suddenly sound so smug?

I scoff, still not giving an inch. "No, you don't. I'm ruled by Neptune, after all, the planet of illusion."

I'm acutely aware that Snape has turned his attention to my left side, now. He nips at my jaw and his fingers press lightly against the wolf's scar. It feels too deliberate, and I sense the energy in the room shift. I move to rise, to push him off me, but then I feel the unmistakable jab of a wand digging into my side. His free hand wraps around my throat. My shoulders jerk reflexively as his grip tightens to block my air flow.

"Oh, Lupin, Lupin," says the Slytherin.

His tone is a strange elixir— there's the familiar condescension, but also a threat, and most confusing of all, an undertone of affection.

His grip loosens enough to allow only weak breath.

"Sna-" I rasp, air hunger causing me to writhe slightly.

Abruptly, the snake's grip loosens almost completely. He swallows my gasp with his mouth, and engulfs mine in a surprisingly passionate kiss. I don't know why I kiss back, all the while breathing through my nose desperately. He pulls away and I cough, screwing my eyes shut. For a while only the sound of my rough breathing fills the room. I leave my eyes closed even after I recover.

Snape speaks softly into my ear.

"Are you certain you're not ruled by the moon?"

* * *

 

Somehow, I manage to remain impassive.

"Quite certain," I say, and my voice is a bit rough, but steady even as my mind is racing.

A disappointed hum from Snape. I open my eyes to see him shake his head.

"Your heart gives you away; it beats in my hand. I know you're lying, Remus."

The Slytherin has never used my given name. I have trouble recalling the last time someone beside my father did so, in such a patient tone. I refuse to avoid his eyes and I'm confused when I find no disgust or fear in their obsidian depths.

Strangely, the realization that I'm caught is sluggish to fully register. The moment it does, though, I feel an overwhelming exhaustion wash over me. I suddenly feel I can't go on. I don't know how I made it so far, but I'm certain now I lack the strength to keep hiding. I feel I can't maintain the grueling cycle of lying, breaking, bleeding, howling.

The idea of someone else knowing my secret makes me hollow with terrified relief. For a moment, I seem to leave my body, and when I come back, I feel faint. My hand comes up to cover Snape's on my neck, to remind myself he's not choking me again.

"What do you want?" I say, deadpan, accepting. I know he has me right where he's wanted me. He may as well have a scythe angled around the back of my neck, absolutely aching to behead me.

He could have asked for money, academic or personal favors. He could have asked for blood or bone, whether for potions or not, and I would have complied.

"What do you want?" I say again, impatient.

I feel his hand shift under mine, not to harm, but simply to turn and grasp my own with a gentleness almost as frightening as the earlier revelation.

"You," he says. "All to myself. Stop sleeping around; and call me Severus."

I realize in that moment— if love and hate are two sides of the same coin, then love and fear are kissing cousins.

* * *

 

"Of course, Severus," I say, and I feel the wand's pressure disappear.

I try to ignore how well his given name suits him, how I enjoy the sound, the taste. I tell myself I'm not glad about what has just happened, that I am simply relieved that his requests are so simple.

He asks for my birthday and I tell him the truth, again, March tenth. He nods and squeezes my hand before letting go. He rises off me, finishes dressing, and leaves.

I collapse on the bed, curling up and almost laughing at the ridiculous scenario— how abruptly backwards my life has become if after a meeting in this room I feel so cold and hungry. Instead of blissfully blank, I feel thoughtful in a way that physically hurts.

I made a grievous error, misjudging him. I didn't expect one with such walls to be so adept at infiltrating those of others.

 _Fucking obnoxious Slytherin._ I think.

I lack the mental energy necessary to analyze what just transpired, let alone consider what, if anything, could be done in response. Dazedly, I pull the cool sheets over my still over-warm body, and promptly stumble into a fitful sleep.


	4. Guard

I fail to think of a way around Snape’s demands, and succumb to my fate with practiced ease.

We create a schedule to simplify matters. After asking my input, we decide on regular meetings every Wednesday and Saturday, with additional days being rare, but possible according to our discretion. I am surprised he gives me permission to initiate extra meetings. Of course, I never do.

Our charmed note paper is now utilized for check-ins, good mornings, and good nights— not solely for terse rendezvous information. He doesn't ask a lot of questions. This may be due to shyness, but I have a distinct feeling that he's being careful not to be overbearing. If this hunch is indeed accurate, I cannot help but appreciate it.

We don’t have sex every time we meet. Sometimes we play chess. Our skill levels are ridiculously similar, which makes for good matches, most times resorting to best two out of three. Sometimes we simply lay together in relative silence. His warm body bends to conform to mine; his hand absently caresses my arm. This kind of visit disconcerts me most. I’m surprised he seems to doze at times. Naturally, I never allow myself this level of vulnerability.

Without the constant stress of making myself available to other random suitors, I find myself more relaxed than I have been in a long time. The structure of our schedule helps ground me, and I find my resolve to remain indifferent to the Slytherin slowly being worn away like a boulder in a persistent river. 

* * *

 

February’s moon is set to rise on Friday, the fourth, and the week prior Snape tells me our regular meetings will be put off. He tells me instead to come to him the Monday after the moon.

On my way to meet him, I realize one of my past partners is trailing after me. He’s a Gryffindor seventh year, tall and possessing a much bulkier build than me.  
  
It’s still early in the moon’s waning, and I lack the energy to deal with this, but I have no choice. When I turn to face him, his gait speeds up subtly. He finally stops in front of me, inching close to purposely invade my space. He jerks his head back and to the side, signaling me to join him in an empty classroom.  
  
“I already told you I don’t do that anymore,” I say, refusing to step back. “Not with you, not with anyone.”

His average face becomes ugly as it contorts in anger.  
  
“C’mon Lupin, make this easy for both of us and get your tight little arse into that room, _now_.”

He moves to grab my arm and I jerk away from him.

“I’m done with that.”

He glares down at me, seemingly disbelieving of my insolence.

* * *

 

I’m itching for my wand, but I don’t dare draw it. As a Dark creature, I’ve never shaken the paranoia that the smallest sign of aggression or upsetting the status quo would cause my immediate expulsion.

I’m grateful that he isn’t reaching for his wand, either. Perhaps he’s muggle-born. He may see his wand as more of a helpful tool than a weapon, especially when strong emotions cloud judgement. Or maybe he’s figured out that there are magical detection lines weaving all throughout the castle to alert faculty when harmful spells are cast.

* * *

 

“Useless,” he growls. Disgust makes his eyes spark in the torchlight.

He halfway turns away, but then snaps back around to punch me squarely in the jaw.

I fight to remain standing, tasting blood. I curse the lingering effects of the moon for slowing my reflexes. The brute yanks me to the side by my collar and jams his elbow into my chest, ramming me against the wall. My head snaps back and collides with the stone with a sickening thud.

He strikes me in the side of my gut, which sends me down on one knee, clutching my midsection and struggling for breath. Dismissively, he shoves me unto my side with his booted foot. 

“Piece of shit,” he hisses, and leaves.

* * *

 

After a short while, I gingerly rise. I’m close to the Room of Requirement, and all I can think of is the plush bed awaiting me within. I pause before entering the room to heal and clean up my lip, hoping to avoid questioning from Snape.

Upon entrance, I immediately feel that it’s too bright and the dozens of large crimson candles in the chandelier above dim to accommodate me. I see Snape stand, but do not greet him.

I nearly trip on my way to the bed, and straighten up quickly, still trying to act normally. My cover’s blown, however, as I gasp when the movement pulls on my ribs painfully. I double over, eyes shut tightly. I feel a hand on my shoulder and brush it off.

“What happened to you?” he says. I shake my head.

“I’m jus’ tired,” I say, annoyed at my lazy speech. I want to blame the moon for my current condition, but my weak focus causes the words to elude me.

I know he doesn’t believe me, but thankfully he backs off as I close the distance to the bed and crawl awkwardly unto it with heavy limbs. I move to lay on my back, but the position hurts my head and stretches my sore side too much. I reflexively turn over and curl up, blindly grabbing a spare pillow and hugging it close.

For a while I don't hear anything except the pounding in my head, and then a sudden realization cuts through my foggy mind with startling clarity— I want Snape near me, I want him to hold me. I’m too tired to feel averse to the desire, and yet my pride won’t allow me to mention it. As I start to slip toward unconsciousness, I am awash with loneliness that cuts like a freezing wind.

* * *

 

I hear Snape say, “You’re bleeding."

He sounds far away and I have difficulty reading his tone.

“What? No...” I say lowly. I remain still; I keep my eyes closed.

“This isn’t from the moon. Someone hurt you,” he says. This time his voice is closer, and I can decipher grim anger lacing the words like wrought iron bars.

“Please,” I say, unable to suppress the soft groan that escapes me. “Don’t ask.”

Silence follows, and then the bed slowly depresses. A warm presence nestles against my back; a hand gently smooths my hair.

Distantly, I remember my mother comforting me when I was ill- low melodic humming and the scent of gardenias. I miss her deeply and yet she hates me, wherever she is. My curse drove her away. I want to be angry about it, but all I feel is guilt and regret clenching around my heart.

As an arm comes to rest across my waist, tears gather behind my eyelids in response to equal parts grief and gratitude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank everyone who has shown interest in this story, it really means a lot! As I continue to wrestle with Chapter 5, perhaps you could pop over to my grown-up Snupin one-shot called Fighting Against the End. I have a couple works featuring Remus and Sirius as well, if you're curious. 
> 
> Thank you again for the kudos/comments, and happy reading ♥


	5. Disclosure

When I come to, the ache in my side and pain in my head have diminished significantly. I understand that Snape sleeps behind me, judging by his slow, deep breathing. I sit up slowly and look behind me, noticing a small blood stain on the pillow. As I reach up to press along the back of my head, I feel no swelling or pain. Only a bit of hair stuck together remains as evidence of injury. The realization that the Slytherin has healed me creates a surprisingly pleasant constriction in my chest.

Snape lies on his back, and the change in his appearance fascinates me. Of course, everyone looks different when they're asleep, but I'd never really seen him like this. At rest, he looks his age. I realize, then, how his scowling adds years to his countenance. The wrinkle between his brows has vanished, and his lips part in a way that conveys both innocence and sensuality.

I suddenly want to kiss him, to surprise him upon waking. I’d like to blame this desire on what was most likely a mild concussion earlier, but I know that in truth I cannot. I shift position to face him properly, but as I start to lean over, I sense a minuscule shift in his expression. I would have thought I’d imagined it, except a moment later his body tenses, his brow furrows.

I pull away and sit back, legs folded under me. He turns his head to one side, and my hands itch to loosen his fist gripping the sheet. I hesitate to wake him. I don't want to frighten him, but as a soft, distressed sound reaches my ears, I know I cannot resist. A nightmare is clearly brewing, and I'd rather he know he's not alone sooner rather than later.

I rest my hand on his shoulder. He turns his head to the side where I touch him, but he doesn't wake. His breathing becomes slightly labored. I squeeze his shoulder.

“Severus.” 

I receive no answer except his quickening breath.

I shake his shoulder more firmly, and like an undead creature waking, he sits bolt upright with a gasp. I embrace him reflexively.

"It's okay," I say. "It was a dream."

Wordlessly, his arms wrap around me. He rests his chin on my shoulder, and my hand cradles the base of his skull. The sweat in his hair speaks to his distress, and I feel glad to have woken him.

Silence clothes us as we lie down once more. Severus lays his head on my chest, the position feeling more natural than times passed. Suddenly his comparative slimness and modest height strikes me anew, and a deep protectiveness ripples through my blood.

“You can talk about it, or not. Whatever you want," I say.

A thoughtful pause permeates the space between us, and then Severus hesitantly speaks.

“My mum is a witch; father’s a muggle. He was never very affectionate toward me, but he abused my mum. For a long time, I never witnessed it, but I could tell. ... My early accidental magic was subtle, and only my mum noticed at first. She told me not to tell my father, and I realized then, maybe he was resentful of magic.

When I was eight, my dad went after my mum while I was home. I’d never felt so angry, and I doubt I ever will again. I got between them, and when he moved to strike me, my fear and rage created a shield which stopped his fist from reaching us. ... My nightmares consist of that night, and the beating that followed. My mom was blocked from reaching the phone to call the police, and afterward he threatened us so vehemently that she couldn’t bring herself to reach out to anyone about it.

The next time this happened, my magic burned his hand, which finally scared him off. Thank Merlin he and my mum divorced soon after.”

He sighed heavily.

"I thought I might die. It hurt to breathe— probably broken ribs. I was terrified my lung was going to be punctured. It wasn’t long before the room was dim and spinning, but the hate in my father's face was so clear. I’ll never forget it."

At this point my jaw begins to hurt from gritting my teeth. I fail to prevent my mind from imagining the scene, replaying it.

Snape lifts his head and turns to look at me. The trust in his eyes burns. I suddenly feel guilty, dirty. This openness doesn’t make sense to me. I don’t deserve it.

“I’m sorry that happened. I’m glad he’s gone,” I say.

Severus rests his head once more on my chest, and it rises and falls as I sigh deeply.

“Will you tell me how you got hurt?” The Slytherin says.

I should have known better than to hope the issue would be dropped.

“It doesn’t matter,” I answer lowly. “I’m used to a lot worse.”

“It matters to me,” he returns immediately, and loathe as I am to admit, his matter-of-fact tone shatters my resolve.

“I refused sex with someone," I say without emotion. "He got angry. Normally I wouldn't be such an easy target, but the moon hinders me still.”

“Who was it?” Severus asks, voice dark and slow like coagulating blood.

“That, I won’t tell you. He’s not worth the time or energy.”

“You can’t expect me to just—”

“He's not worth it,” I cut him off. “Drop it.”

Snape moves to rise, gearing up for an argument, but I pull him back down firmly.

“Drop it. Trust me,” I say.

After a tense moment, I feel his body relax against me—a silent concession.

Another silence lingers for a while, until he says, “Are you really used to them, your transformations?”

Caught off guard, my mirthless laugh stains the air.

“Fuck no,” I say sharply, and suddenly feel much too exposed.

I sit up, pushing Severus away, though not roughly.

“I have to go,” I say, hurrying off the bed.

Snape moves to sit cross-legged on the bed. As I scoop my bag off the floor, he says simply,

“I’ll see you later.”

I nod, already half way through the door.

* * *

 

Later on, as I settle into my night routine, I realize I hadn’t checked the note paper in a while. I feel both drawn and averse to seeing if it says anything, but in the end I give in to curiosity.

The paper reads 'Goodnight, Remus,' and after the words vanish, I stare at the paper for a while before putting it away in my bedside drawer.

I lie down, and after some difficulty manage to fall asleep despite the nagging desire to write back.


End file.
